Fading Memories
by accio-avengers
Summary: Sherlock suffers a near death experience and is saved by John Watson just in time. But as time goes by, is John really all he seems? *Major character death
1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock was running, faster, faster, John Watson at his heels, dodging corners and skipping streets, fighting through the heart of London._

_Sherlock halted abruptly, turning to aim a careful shot at his pursuer. John, gasping for breath, turned just in time to see another man attacking Sherlock from behind._

_Just as the knife the man was carrying stabbed Sherlock in the side, John jumped on him, dragging him back, grabbing his gun, ready to shoot the man who had hurt his Sherlock. Too late. As Sherlock sank to the ground, gasping, the assailant turned, and in one swift movement, blasted a hole right into John's chest. The last thing Sherlock saw before he fell unconscious was John on the ground, his own blood swirling around him making pretty patterns on the wet pavement, the whole scene bathed in red and blue police lights._

Sherlock hit reality quickly, the scream already on his lips. God, he hated nightmares. He lifted a hand to wipe his face and realised he couldn't. A long tube ran from his arm to the foot of his bed, making it near impossible to move. His vision was blurred and there was a dull throb in the back of his head. He blinked a few times, trying to gather some discernible thoughts. The white lights combined with the white walls and sheets, plus the heavy tubing on his arm suggested he was in some form of medical facility, most likely the hospital. He shook his head again, and as his vision cleared, he could see the machines surrounding his prone body.

Ah. He had been injured then. He tried to move, and gasped in pain as hot fire raced up his side. Carefully pulling back the blankets he saw a mound of bandages wrapped around his middle. Quite injured, he decided, gently prodding it with a finger.

A noise at the door made him look up suddenly. John Watson stood in the doorway, relief evident on his face.

"God, Sherlock, you gave us all quite the scare." He sat down on the sterilised looking chair beside Sherlock's bed and gently took his hand.

"I seem to be rather good at doing that," Sherlock muttered, causing a small laugh to come from John.

"I'm just glad you're okay, Sherlock, that's all."

Sherlock hardly heard. He had fallen asleep again.

_Sherlock could hear voices. He wanted them all to shut up, wasn't it evident he was trying to sleep? _

"_Should we tell him?" One voice Sherlock vaguely recognised as Lestrade whispered._

"_God, look at him." Molly. Molly Hooper. "We can't tell him, not in while he's this state. Poor man."_

_Tell me! Sherlock wanted to say. I'm not a poor man! Tell me! But his mouth couldn't form the words and sleep overcame him once more._

All in all, Sherlock had to spend a week in hospital. After all, he did have a stab wound in his side that by all normal circumstances should have killed him. It was lucky, the doctors told Sherlock, that he had had somebody there to pull the knife away in time. It was lucky he'd had John. Sherlock hadn't seen all that much of John, to be honest. At least, not while other people had been around. When it was just Sherlock, though, John stopped by, sat next to him, chatted to him, held his hand through the pain, told him awful jokes.

Nobody else was cheerful like John. Lestrade, Molly, Sally Donovan, anderson. All had stopped by, said a few words. They'd all been acting like someone had died.

I'm not dead yet, Sherlock had joked. None of them laughed, or even smiled.

Still, Sherlock had his John, and that was all that mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

Letting himself back into 221B Baker St, an eerie shiver ran down Sherlock's spine. Something was off. The flat was dark and dusty, the curtains sill drawn. It looked like nobody had lived in it for a week. Surely John had been home, hadn't he? Sherlock brushed his worries away and staggered into his room. God, his side hurt. Not that he'd admit it. Flopping on his back on his bed, Sherlock wondered where John had gotten to. John had really been off, recently. Recently being since Sherlock had been hurt. At first, Sherlock had assumed it was to do with relief, or anger, or worry directed at Sherlock. That was usually the case. But as the lonely days had slipped by, John's visits became more and more infrequent. This worried Sherlock, though again he'd hate to admit it.

Still, as he heard the key in the door that marked John's return, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a deep sense of relief.

John poked his head around the door.

"You right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the roof. "I'm perfectly fine."

John perched himself awkwardly on the end of Sherlock's bed. "You really don't seem all that fine."

"Alright, _Doctor_ Watson. I'm not fine."

"Want to talk about it, Sherlock?"

"No."

John leant back, adjusting his position until he was comfortable. "You scared the hell out of me, Sherlock. You know that? I saw the knife go in, the man stab you..." A sob caught in John's throat. I thought it was it. I thought it was the end of Sherlock Holmes. I thought you'd..." again the sharp intake of breath. "I thought you'd died."

Sherlock sighed, unable to meet John's eyes. "I thought _you'd_ died."

John looked surprised. "Me? Whatever for?"

Sherlock looked away uncomfortably. "I mean, the man, he was waving the gun everywhere. I saw a bullet, John. It hit you. There." Sherlock pointed a shaking finger at John's chest. "You fell, there was blood everywhere, I blacked out."

John sighed. "Oh, Sherlock. It was just your mind playing tricks on you. Your body went into overdrive- You'd just been stabbed!"

"Oh." Sherlock's voice was small. "Oh."

John got up off the bed stiffly. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"One thing first, John," Sherlock called to John as he started to leave the room. "You were worried about me. Very worried. Why?"

John fixed Sherlock with a penetrating gaze. "You're my friend, Sherlock. My very, very best friend. I couldn't do this without you."

He turned and walked out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stood awkwardly at the front of the room. Two things he hated, all in one- being acknowledged, and other people. Turns out the man they had killed, the man Sherlock had nearly lost his life tracing, was planning on hijacking a plane filled with American and British consulates, and would have pulled it off if Sherlock and John hadn't stopped him. So here he was, in a room filled with reporters and people and bloody Lestrade trying to actually acknowledge Sherlock for something, for once.

Sherlock could see John standing up the back of the room, shifting from foot to foot, looking more than a little bit awkward. Sherlock beckoned him over, trying to avoid meeting anyone's gaze.

"John, this is bloody stupid. Can we just go now?" He looked across at Lestrade, who was nervously talking to a group of reporters and pulling on his tie. Everyone was being so secretive, and Sherlock hated it. They were hardly even talking to him, and when they did, it was always measured, careful, as if they were scared to say what was really on their minds.

"Sherlock, to these people, you're a hero! Give them a chance."

"Pfft, John. Everyone knows I wasn't the hero this time, y-"

Sherlock was interrupted by Lestrade grabbing his collar and pulling him out the front.

"Everybody, this is Sherlock Holmes, hero."

Camera flashes clicked and people yelled. Sherlock looked at his feet. God, he hated people. Stupid, boring things. Twice in a minute he had been called a hero, and it made him uncomfortable.

Lestrade kept talking, and with every word he said Sherlock could feel his own anger rising. No, this was all wrong. Sherlock Holmes was not a bloody hero. No. Bad. Wrong.

Sherlock stepped up to Lestrade, delicately tapping him on the shoulder.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking it from here." Lestrade gave him a worried look but stepped back from the microphone, letting Sherlock take front and centre.

He coughed politely and looked over at John, who gave him a quick smile of encouragement.

"Well. You, you're all calling me a hero, like it's some form of compliment. But, really, I wasn't the hero in this case. The hero was Doctor John Watson, my _friend_."

Sherlock savoured the word friend, knowing he rarely had chance to say it. The room was dead silent, people shifting awkwardly and looking at the ground.

"Without John, I'd be dead. The man would have killed me. Apparently I shouldn't have survived anyway." Sherlock took a deep breath and gestured to John. "So, if anyone's your hero, it should be John Watson."

Dead silence.

One brave reporter near the front plucked up courage to yell out a question.

"Mr Holmes! How are you coping now John's dead?"

The silence was suddenly broken by questions and camera flashes and noise, but Sherlock was oblivious to it all. No. No. This. No. They had to be lying. Had to.

He wildly scanned the room, looking for John, he'd seen him just a minute ago, he had to be there, this was John, John didn't just, well, up and die! Sherlock needed John, John wouldn't leave him, he wouldn't, would he?

The noise was becoming unbearable, and Sherlock suddenly realised half of it was himself. He was screaming, and he couldn't stop, he was being tortured, burnt, murdered slowly, destroyed, and he couldn't do anything. As Lestrade put a calming arm around Sherlock's back and hurried him out of the room, Sherlock was still screaming, screaming noiselessly, painfully, he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak.

John was gone.

Sherlock Holmes sat on the couch in 221B Baker St. An unopened newspaper lay in front of him, the headline reading '_Detective Driven Insane by Loss of Comrade.'_ The article went on to describe how Sherlock Holmes had been so badly affected by the death of John Watson that he had invented an imaginary friend, of sorts, to deal with the grief. The accompanying picture showed a broken Sherlock screaming in pain at the conference.

Lestrade sat opposite him, clearly uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

No response.

"John was a good man."

A single tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek.

"I didn't realise you cared so deeply for him."

Sherlock sighed. "Neither did I, Lestrade, neither did I.


End file.
